John's Bits Love Sherlock
by Besina
Summary: John's bits have designs on Sherlock's, and are frequently trying to get him to go along with them. John has no such desires and ends up in numerous arguments with them and struggles for control over the body. Oddly cracky humour and awkward situations ensue.


Written by Besina  
verrrrry late at night on March 6, 2014

I make no excuses. I should, but I don't.

Yeah, due to someone getting their panties in a twist over the old title, this one is back, retitled. Sorry if you've seen it already.  
Since there _are_ so many censorship issues, not to mention difficulties with editing and format over here on FF, this will likely be the last story I crosspost over to this platform (I can't post half of mine here anyway due to their content rules). If you'd like to keep an eye out for my stuff in the future, I'm available on AO3 as Besina or on Tumblr as Besinaao3.

You don't have to be a member to read stuff over at AO3, but if you'd like to be so that you can leave kudos and feedback under a name other than 'guest' and bookmark or subscribe to stories, give me a yell on either of those two above-mentioned formats and I can get an invite out to you. Failing that, you can get on their automated invite list which usually takes less than 3 days.

* * *

John's penis tugged him toward Sherlock while the detective wasn't looking.

"Stop that!" John hissed at his trousers, nearly bumping into the very same detective he wasn't talking to.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him. "Stop what?" he asked, "I'm simply looking at a crime scene. Is there a Problem?" He looked at John a little longer as the man fidgeted with his coat and was apparently undecided about whether or not to turn away from him.

Dropping his voice and furrowing his brow a little, he asked quietly, "Did I... say... do... something _bad?"_

"No, no, Sherlock. You're fine. I just... I have to go now." And with that the doctor marched stiffly away, grimacing with every step.

_His leg must be hurting him again, must fix that,_ Sherlock mused, before turning back to the Work.

John disappeared around a corner, his crotch trying hard to lead him back in Sherlock's direction. He forced himself to turn back around, away from the detective to have a little one-on-one with his privates.

_"That,"_ he hissed, "is _not on!_ He's not interested, and even if he were,_ I'm **not gay!**"_ he said with perhaps slightly more vehemence than he intended, as Donovan walked by, picking up on the outburst and looking a little befuddled, then amused as she gave him a 'yeah, right' nod of agreement on her way past, wondering why he'd ambushed her out of the blue to insist upon this. She hadn't even been implying anything lately.

_But we like Sherlock,_ insisted his privates.

"No, no we don't. Not like that. Sherlock is our _friend_, not our fuck-buddy. _We_," he motioned back and forth between himself and his parts, "are straight."

His bits grumbled at him, and he thought he actually heard himself called a cock-blocker, amongst some other ungrateful names, but they settled down for the day, and quit trying to snug themselves up against his flatmate's arse without his approval.

This had been going on for some months now, and John was of the firm belief that he was losing his mind. Neither penises, nor arses, for that matter, could talk. Even telepathically. And arguing with them was completely mad. Of course, it seemed if he didn't, his warped brain wanted to make him snuggle right up against Sherlock and either rut at his arse or settle into his lap and encourage the man to to that to _his_.

He was becoming a sex maniac. That had to be it. A completely crazed sex maniac with untoward designs on his flatmate.

Crazy or not, this was _not_ the sort of thing one discussed with one's therapist.

* * *

It was one month further on, one month more in which he'd been having private wrestling matches for control over his body with his private parts, and in which he'd started to investigate, in detail, various medications he could covertly get prescribed to him for schizophrenia or maybe multiple-personality disorder without giving away his predicament or getting himself sectioned.

He was in the morgue with Molly, a rather safe place to be since Sherlock was nowhere in sight and he could breathe easily once more, while discussing the finer points of the corpse that had arrived that morning - a trivial task his flatmate had assigned to him as he didn't want to be bothered with it.

Their chat had been going well, and they'd shared one or two good jokes they were both recovering from, when the mad genius himself swept into the room, pulling all the air from it. His cock noticed immediately.

_Please?_ It asked, rather politely, which was a surprise as it was usually much more aggressive. _ Just a little closer. He won't notice._ Ah, it was trying to persuade him now. Still, at least it wasn't trying to wrest control of his limbs - that was better.

Against his better judgement, John moved to the same side of the autopsy table before starting to feel the magnetic draw toward his partner-in-crime, well partner-in-solving-crime, he supposed, feeling drawn, arse-first toward Sherlock's front.

Giving himself a firm swat on the behind, he declared, overly-chipper, "Well! That's that, then! I'll let Molly fill you in while I go grab something from the cafe," while forcing himself to walk rather stiffly out the door, his body turning itself round once or twice to try to pull its way back to the detective.

Molly looked on in wonder for a few moments before something seemed to dawn on her and she took pity on him, sweeping John up and dancing out the door with him, trying to make his erratic movements look a little less so, even if still a bit strange.

A few steps down the hallway and she manoeuvred them into a storage closet, John flummoxed but grateful to be out of Sherlock's proximity.

"You've got it too!" she hissed, trying not to be overheard.

"Got what?"

"Don't try to play innocent with me, John Watson, I know the signs!"

"Signs?" he said wonderingly.

"How your bits seem to want to meld with Sherlock?" she exclaimed, "Surely you've noticed!"

"I...I..." he wasn't sure how to respond. He'd just gotten comfortable with his own insanity diagnosis and now here someone was telling him that there were signs of something that sounded communicable.

"You've never heard of it, then, have you?" she asked, nearly demanded, in fact.

_I quite like his cock,_ whispered his bum, the shyest part of him, it seemed, as his own penis was rather boisterous regarding Sherlock's arse.

"There you go!" she exclaimed, "Proof!"

"You _heard that?_" John nearly choked.

"Of course! Anyone with the problem can hear it, and can definitely spot it in others. You weren't exactly being subtle."

She stared him down. "You didn't do _any_ research, did you?"

"Well, yeah, all sorts for mental conditions and medications. I _am_ losing my mind after all, aren't I?"

"No!" she rebuked, then softened her tone, "Although I can see where you might think that...

"It's called SPS - started out as 'Sentient Penis Syndrome' and was quickly modified to 'Privates' when it became clear that the penis wasn't the only part involved. There's an entire forum dedicated to it on the Internet. It started affecting me ages ago, when Sherlock and I first met. In fact, it seems _only_ to affect those in close proximity to Sherlock Holmes.

"There's ex-clients, taxi drivers, waiters at restaurants he frequents, your take-out delivery boy - I can't tell you how happy he is when _you_ answer the door rather than Sherlock, although his bits put up a mighty fuss, to hear him tell it. Then a couple of his brother's employees; there's even a few people at the Yard who've been affected, and one or two I suspect here at Bart's as well."

There was dead silence for a moment.

"Wait," John floundered, "You're telling me: there's a whole host of people, who, having at one point or another come into contact with Sherlock, have found their nether regions somehow attracted to him?"

Molly nodded.

"_And_ willing to argue about it and try to take over the body in order to further their goals?"

Molly nodded again.

"You _do_ realise that sounds even crazier than my hypothesis of madness."

She jotted down a web address in her pocket notebook, tearing out the page and handing it to him. "Just check the web forum before you go start loading yourself up with medications - they don't do any good anyway," she added forlornly. "We have a support group though, and it's quite helpful."

_"You do know I'm not gay,_ right?"

"Doesn't seem to matter - they have a will of their own, it seems."

"Tell me about it," John muttered. "Um, well... okay," he added before turning the knob and starting to back out of the cramped closet, "this has been most..." 'enlightening' was on hand as an adjective, but got quickly pushed aside in favour of "...strange."

* * *

Back home, Sherlock sighed.

So John had been affected too. Sherlock really thought they were past the danger point, having lived together for so long with no ill effects. He puffed out another agitated breath. Poor John must be losing his mind not knowing how to cope with this. It certainly explained his search history.

Sherlock put down John's laptop, closing the browser as he did so - no sense embarrassing him any further.

And Molly, dancing him out of the room: quick thinking that, but a dead giveaway as John's parts alternately turned his front, then his backside toward him, each wrestling for control, while John sought to tame them both.

Sherlock knew. Of course he knew. He'd known for some time, as soon as the second person he'd come across had started acting in the same strange way: jerking away from him somewhat unwillingly, and frequently arguing with themselves out of public view.

He'd begun the research then.

Most people thought he was oblivious to things of a sexual nature, but that wasn't true. He'd simply observed, and the more he observed, and the more people who seemed to be affected, the more apparent it became what was going on. And while sentient body parts _was_ a bit of a leap, when you eliminate the impossible (and even the possible, as he'd done massive amounts of research and testing)... _this_ is what he was left with.

Mycroft knew too. Of course, Mycroft's own had stalked him for a week before the man had sat down in his office one day and had a very serious conversation with them about why _that_ was _never_ going to happen, and then threatened castration and figging if they didn't behave. Knowing the very serious mind of their owner, they hadn't given him a problem since. Though they had sulked a bit.

Mycroft still refused to do anything about the others troubled by it, however, thinking it mildly amusing and Sherlock situationally blind to the goings-on. They could think up their own ways of getting their bodies back under control. After all, after a while of being completely flustered, Molly had eventually done admirably.

Used to examining conspiracy theories, Mycroft had stumbled across the support forum not long after his own troubles began. There was a support group that met in person as well, but he could hardly go to _that_. Quite often his genitals demanded he log in simply so they could complain via pseudonym, Mycroft having to swiftly edit out any references to their beloved as his _brother_. They were rather clueless sometimes.

* * *

What had caused this sudden interest in random people in Sherlock's life remained a mystery. It was a new conundrum, not more than a few years old, and he frequently wracked his mind to come up with something, anything, he might have been exposed to that would cause this sort of reaction in people.

He always came up blank.

He was constantly researching cures, but having very little to go on, never got far, plus John had a tendency to complain when his tests cluttered up the entire kitchen. It's not as if he could really tell the man what they were _for_.

And so they went on living, day to day, sometimes going weeks, even months before John found it necessary to make up an excuse and make a mad dash from the room. Until _it_ happened. The _it_ that was always destined to happen from the moment John found himself saddled with this inconvenience.

They'd been quite well behaved, and he'd just been coming out of the kitchen while Sherlock was moving into it, scooting by each other sideways, Sherlock behind John, when it happened.

John nearly spilled his tea as he was pulled forcibly backward, his arse grinding into Sherlock's pelvis.

"U...um..." he thought madly trying to come up with an excuse for this outrageous behaviour, while trying to squirm his way apart from Sherlock's lap - the squirming only making things worse as his arse raved and whispered sweet nothings to Sherlock's penis.

The detective couldn't hear them, but they were making John's face flush quite red with embarrassment.

He stopped trying to wriggle his way away, setting his tea down on the worktop near him, frantically grabbing at straws to explain himself.

Sherlock's hand came up to gently grasp his elbow as it became apparent his doctor may soon hyperventilate.

"It's okay, John. Relax."

"I CAN'T relax, Sherlock!" John wailed, "My fucking arse has glued itself to your crotch for godssakes!" He then realised how incredibly insane that sounded and started to hyperventilate again.

_Wriggle some more!_ begged his arse, _not_ making things any easier.

John dropped his head and groaned, humiliated out of his mind. This had to be some sort of nightmare.

"It was bound to happen sometime, John. It's not like with the others - _they_ don't have to deal with me on a 24-hour basis. _They_ don't live with me. Eventually the frustration was going to mount and the draw was going to win out, and it appears it has."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and shuffled them back into the sitting room, pulling John down on top of his lap as he sat in his chair.

John's brain eventually caught up.

"Wait... You mean... You _know?"_

"I've suspected the affliction of many people for quite some time, and no, I've no idea what caused it."

_I like his penis too!_ called John's cock, not particularly picky about which bits it rubbed against or inserted itself into. _If you could see your way clear to just turning around a bit..._

"No!" bit out John, vehemently.

"Are they arguing with you again?"

John nodded before he really grasped hold of the question.

"How do you know about _that?"_ he asked, flabbergasted.

"Observation. Lots of people apparently arguing with them. I really wish I could hear what they're saying."

"No you don't!" John groaned. "It's damn near pornographic."

_I just like to cuddle,_ protested his arse.

_HA!_ came the response from his penis.

"BOTH OF YOU! QUIET DOWN!" John roared, feeling absolutely mental.

He had to think. But he _had_ been thinking, for _months_, and it hadn't done him any good. There was only one person left to ask.

He buried his head in his hands and enquired meekly, "Well, Sherlock, how do I remedy this? I can't go around stuck to you forever."

"No, it would seem unwieldy at best," replied his flatmate.

"I would suggest," he continued, "in severe cases like this, it might be best simply to give them what they want."

A cheer erupted from John's pants.

"That's_ not possible,_ Sherlock! What they want is _you!_ Or at least to get it on with _your_ bits."

"I _am_ aware of that, John. I never said I _minded_."

A pin could have dropped in the silence that followed.

"You what?"

"I don't mind... Shall we?"

Sherlock stood up and started walking John in front of him towards his bedroom.

_Ohgod, was this really going to happen? He and Sherlock were going to let their bits have gay sex with one another. Granted, that actually meant that he and Sherlock were going to have gay sex with..._ his thoughts trailed off.

He found the idea was not that repulsive, even though he was sure he wasn't going to be allowed to just lay there - they'd want an active participant after all. Someone to really give it to... or get it from...

_Ack!_

John was naked before he knew it, his hands apparently taken over by his more celebratory parts.

John didn't remember much of the rest of that afternoon, only that there was much whooping and carrying on, grinding and hip thrusting, and lots and lots of come. By the time he regained control of himself, his arse was humming happily and his penis was apparently asleep.

Sherlock watched John's conscious mind re-surface, one arm slung under his neck, as the doctor's eyes blinked open again.

"Feeling better?" the silky voice asked.

"Um, yes. Much. Bit sore here and there. Oh by god, they didn't..."

"Fairly insisted, I'm afraid. You rode me for..."

"No, no... I don't want to know."

"Well, you also buggered me for..."

"Quiet! Just quiet, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged and quieted down.

"It was quite _good_, John," he added, unable to help himself.

John groaned.

"Just because your bits want to play doesn't make you gay," he soothed.

"Um yes, Sherlock, I rather think that's the definition of it."

"So your body's gay but your brain is not."

"Essentially... at least when it comes to you."

"Well, I think we've found a way to tame them, at least for a while," Sherlock mused.

"Wait. I thought you were asexual, Sherlock."

"I am. Doesn't mean I can't give you a good seeing-to every once in a while. I'm not _unskilled_, you know."

_He's really, really not._ John's arse said dreamily.

"Okay, but I really can't have them taking over my body all the time."

"Then it would make sense that we schedule a time to..."

"No."

"No? It only makes sense, John. Was it so terrible this time around?"

"I barely remember this time around."

"Well, your body certainly had a good time."

John groaned again. "Alright, how often did you have in mind?"

"Once a month should do it, based on what I've observed of your reactions to me."

_Once a month? _ complained his arse, bitterly.

"Hush, you, or we'll make it once a year."

_Fine,_ grumbled his arse,_ but the penis isn't going to like this._

"Yeah? Well it's asleep, so it can go bugger off."

"I really do wish I could hear this," commented Sherlock.

Once a month. Could he _do this_ once a month? Well, Sherlock seemed to be willing to and he wasn't even remotely interested in sex. "Okay," agreed John, "we'll give it a shot, once a month until we figure out some sort of cure."

John's bum snuggled up against Sherlock's penis again.

"Um. Does it want some more?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John admitted, rather put out, as he climbed back onto his hands and knees.

There was a cut-off, muffled_ 'Hooray!'_ from the direction of his arse, as Sherlock slid back in again.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**End Notes:**

I just... I don't even... *sigh*

Dear readers,

Please leave comments, as I, like John, am fearing for my sanity.

Thank you,  
Besina

Translation permissions can be found in my AO3 profile. (I'm Besina over there, too)

You can also now follow me on Tumblr, if you're a bit crazed. :) (screen name there is besinaao3)


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